


Give me Shadow, put on my crow.

by kaluha (orphan_account)



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alpha-Dave, M/M, Sadstuck
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-04
Updated: 2012-05-31
Packaged: 2017-10-28 22:56:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,564
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/313083
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/kaluha
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Your name is Dave Strider and you've spent your whole life searching.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Wandering

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _A distant memory  
>  semitransparent dreams  
> I waited for them, trying to catch them in my hand_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok so I'm going to post the first chapter so I actually have motivation to finish it.  
> I'm sorry it's bad.  
> I'm sorry about everything.  
> I don't know what coloured eyes crows have in America, but in Australia they're blue-white.  
> I'm sorry if it's obvious I'm not American.  
> I'm sorry this chapter is so short.  
> It's 964 words.  
> That's a lot for me ok.  
> I'm sorry.  
> I'm sorry for being a terrible writer.

Your name is Dave Strider and you've spent your whole life searching. For what? Well, here's the funny thing; you have no idea. All you know is that ever since your thirteenth birthday you've been pining for something. Something to fill that gaping hole in your heart so that you can feel normal for once in your life, but nothing seems to fit. Just when you think you've found the right piece, and once you are confident enough to try to finally fit it in place, you look closely and realise the glasses are the wrong shape, the eyes are the wrong blue, the hair is the wrong style and you throw that one-size-too-small piece away so fast people by now probably think you don't even have a heart. An assumption which you started to wish was true. The hole doesn't exist only in your heart, you can feel it in your memory as well. This one is a whole lot more frustrating, mostly because you can get so close to remembering but just as you grab it, it slips away and you can never get it back. This hole, instead of leaving you numb, actually gave you headaches. One time it got so bad you passed out in the middle of mixing some jams. Your foster parents found you, but they assumed you'd passed out from drinking like the little asshole they thought you were and left you there to wake up later that night feeling like you'd just been the victim of the greatest headshot in COD history. No one knew about the pain, of course. You didn't tell anyone. Who was there to tell? You'd tried making friends. Tried, failed, and, uh, yeah let's never go back there again alright thanks. No two shits were given over the whole lone wolf thing, it felt right. You didn't want those douchebag kids in your grade, you wanted...  
What did you want?

This all sounds like perfectly good teenage slit-my-wrists-and-die angst, like, call Stephanie Meyer we've got the next big thing, but it wasn't until you were sixteen that the real heartbreak started. Living your life feeling like this wasn't the right world, or even the right fucking _dimension_ , was just a tiny carbon molecule on the giant flaming asteroid of heartbreak that would come hurtling towards you like the freshest batch of newly fan-splattered shit the universe had to offer.  
Literally.  
Like, really fucking literally.

\--

Your day starts the usual way – parents screaming at you to get your ass downstairs that very instant or so help them there would be consequences. To this, you flip your door the bird and mouth a silent fuck you before climbing through the window and escaping down the street unnoticed. It’s pretty rude to treat your elders like that, and you know it. But it’s not like they’re your real parents, and thus your fucks remain well tucked into your pockets, not a single one handed out, and your day runs it’s usual path. As you walk the temperate morning streets, equipped with nothing but your sunglasses and your wallet-- Oh, wait. You also have your old pair of tiny, pointed sunnies, but you wouldn’t say you were equipped with them because you were never unequipped of them. You keep them tucked perpetually into your back pocket, unable to be without them for some messed up, obscure reasoning you didn’t even understand yourself. They used to fit you, when you were about four and the world didn’t seem as dark, nor the word parents so foreign. Now you can fit them snuggly onto your index finger with ease.

The path forks and you take the left, winding your way through the familiar greenery to the old park. Park is a bit of an overstatement. It’s just a pair of swings and a slide with a bench, all of which are covered with a century of dirt and grit and scandalous statements like _Terry Smith’s Mum is a hoe_. You plop yourself down onto the bench, swinging your legs up and squirming until you’re comfortably laying on your side, head cushioned snuggly in the crook of your elbow. You close your eyes and take in the quiet rustling of leaves and distant traffic, the soft breeze that sweeps past sporadically and the chirp of unseen insects.

A flutter of wings and a clack of claws on wood snaps your eyes back open. Just above you, perched on the back of the bench, is a crow. He cocks his head at different angles, looking you over blankly. You look at its eyes and have to blink a few times to make sure you’re seeing correctly. Instead of the usual pale blue, the bird’s eyes were a bright golden-orange. You know deep down you should be startled. Like, you should be flipping your shit and freaking the fuck out, but you end up being washed over by a strong feeling of nostalgia, a feeling which causes the hole in your heart to burn painfully around the ages, growing larger by millimetres. “’Sup.” You say, nodding to the bird. He makes a bobbing movement, as if nodding back. A smile itches at your lips. “So hey, apparently I’m gonna get my nap on. Don’t want to get eaten while I’m sleeping or something, so that’s where you come in.” The crow ruffles his feathers, settling down on his perch above you. You settle your head back down in the nook of your arms and close your eyes. As the tendrils of sleep itch their way across the dark undersides of your eyelids, you hear the bird call six times.  
Deep in the back of your mind, you hear a soft, feathery version of your own voice.  
 _Caw Caw Motherfuckers._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I give you fair warning - the chapter titles in this, as well as the actual title, are all songs from World's End Girlfriend and are probably going to seem random as hell. Or maybe they're fitting?  
> Listen to them and figure it out yourselves.


	2. Call Past Rain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _A shock ran through me as if I saw a blue sky through a typhoon  
>  I wonder what he is doing now  
> Those concepts leaving me drenched my heart_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If there are any mistakes please tell me and I'll fix them immediately.  
> This is a little longer, but the quality is deteriorating.  
> I'm so sorry.  
> Shrieks.

You wake up about half an hour later, a strange warmth right behind your kness. Shifting yourself up onto one elbow, you find in the little pocket between your legs and the back of the bench the little orange-eyed crow. He looks at you straight on, eyes piercing through your shades and into your soul – which should be a little fucking creepy but what’s creepier is that you feel like you’re looking into the mirror. “Thanks bro, mission accomplished.” You say. You pull yourself into a sitting position, careful not to disturb the bird, and stretch the knots of sleep out of your muscles. The bird stands up, fluffing out his feathers. He waddles closer, coming to a stop right next to your arm. You look at him questioningly, but the bird simply gives your arm a hard jab and flies away. You yelp, rubbing your arm.  
 _Feathery asshole._

\--

The store’s only a few minutes’ walk from the park. Once equipped with a carton of apple juice and a cylinder of pringles, you leave and saunter down the street towards your house. You don’t want to go back, but you have to deal with your poser-parents sooner or later. You were a street away when a bright flash in the sky caught your attention. You look up, quizzically, and see four streaks setting the sky ablaze. There’s about a two second time frame between you realising what it is, and one of the asteroids making earth-shattering contact with the road in front of you. Remember that part about the irrationally big Asteroid made of pure heartbreak? Well, that shit just happened and get on the fucking phone and press speed dial #1 for Houston, because we sir have a problem. What, he wants to know what the problem is? Well, son, that’s simple. The problem is that the hole in your heart just went fucking super nova and now you’re bleeding out memories you’ve never seen before in your life.

Images dance through your mind – visions from a life you once lived. A world of Metal and Lava, of strange crocodiles and stranger temples. An alternate you, half crow, orange, and impaled on a katana. An unbeatable enemy. The corpse of a brother. The cries of the fallen. A game, a green house, twelve trolls and four friends. Yes, there were four of you. Their faces look at you, hooded, drawn and lined with the emotional scars no child should have had to of gone through. It’s heartbreaking. You don’t want to look at them, and suddenly they change. They’re younger now, but not by much. They’re smiling at you. The girls chat your ears off, but your eyes simply turn to the goofy kid in the green slime ghost shirt. He has buck teeth, floppy black hair and square glasses. He looks like the biggest fucking derp to ever have herped, but to you he’s beautiful. With a sudden pang, you realise.  
You finally knew what you were looking for.

“John…”  
The name flows from your lips like it was part of the Holy Scripture, careful and dignified – like a small prayer. Your head is spinning, but the wailing of a child snaps you back into reality. You look over the wreckage, but it’s a blur. Frowning you try to clean the dust from your sunnies, only to realise they were clean. You were crying. Cursing, you roughly swatted the tears away and scrambled down into the crater, apple juice and pringles abandoned. In the middle is a small child. Once he sees you, he stops crying – his face becoming stoic. You know who this is. You bundle the little man up in your arms and quickly snap your tiny baby frames onto his face. You know now why you always had them. You were expecting him. Always expecting. Something small settles inside you, making you warm as you press your older brother to your chest. Well, little brother now. You’d have to get used to that little chestnut. The distant wail of fire engines reminds you that, yes, there was just an asteroid, and no, it is not time to stand around and be the biggest fucking sob case since titanic. Pulling yourself out of the hole, you edge into a run, turning the corner and making your way down your street.  
By the time you have one foot through your window, the fire engine whizzes past.

\--

Coming home with a baby doesn’t go down well with the poser-parents. You tell them to get bent and promptly grab what necessities you need and abscond from that emotional hell hole faster than you can rap goodbye assholes. If your Bro could raise you as a single parent, why the fuck couldn’t you? What you didn’t realise was just how hard it was for a sixteen year old to find an apartment or just how hard it was for a sixteen year old to find a stable job to keep the damn thing. Little Dirk ends up being a bigger handful than you expected, and a baby ends up being a lot more expensive than you expected too. When your scrappy earning become tight, you drop school and pick up extra jobs. Between DJing, working at the Video store, selling shitty graphics online and cleaning up people’s yards you spend what little time you have to yourself making the most ironically bad comics in the universe as a means to preserve some kind of identity beyond being a single child-dad. Dirk comes with you to all your jobs. At the night club, the waitresses take care of him and when he tuckers himself out he sleeps in a pillowed crate in the kitchen and gets scraps from the chefs. At the video store, he plays behind the counter, getting under your feet and into everything humanly and inhumanly possible. Most of the people whose lawns you clean don’t mind taking care of him. He doesn’t cry and he isn’t fussy, and the old ladies just adore his little shades. Your neighbours take pity on you, bringing you left overs and cans of whatever they can spare. You accept them, but wonder if this was what it was like for your Bro when he was in your position.

You used to watch him sleep, but one day, when he laid there on his back, arms strewn limply around him, you saw flashes of an impaled, bleeding corpse and ended up in the bathroom in flurry of vomit and tears. You cried yourself to sleep that night, and you never watched him again. You’ve never been so uncool in your life. However, every now and then you pop in to glance at him. You just want to make sure he’s there, that he’s safe, that he isn’t just a figment of your imagination. Rose would babble on about psychological shit like obsession and phobias but that Rose doesn’t exist, so her opinion remains just as non-existent.

You get a call one day from a Jack Noir. The name was almost enough for you to throw the phone across the room and quickly move to the next state, but you listen to what he has to say. Apparently, the guys’ the head of a publishing company and he likes your shitty little webcomic so much he’s going to publish it. You asking him if he’s shitting you, and he says that no, he is not shitting you, you worthless shit, he is totally fucking serious and he is going to make you so rich you will be lining your asshole with 100 dollar notes. You weren’t sure if this guy was legit. You couldn’t afford to get ripped off by some conniving scammers, but when you looked over at Dirk in his life-line PJs and playing with his second hand toys you realised sadly that you had nothing much left to lose. You accepted.

You would later come to realise this was the greatest decision of your life.


	3. Fifteen White

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Winter came  
>  And I wait for Autumn  
> Summer came  
> And I wait for Spring_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gonna update before work.  
> Quality continues to deteriorate.  
> I beg on my knees for your forgiveness.  
> I am a sinner.  
> I am also really hungry, and thus grateful that I work at a pizza place.  
> You should all just stop reading.  
> I'm probably gonna get 1-2 more chapters out of this.  
> Stop now.  
> Save yourselves.

In a matter of months you went from Dave Strider, kid, single dad, job juggling extraordinaire, to D. Strider – Author of this century’s biggest graphic novel. Critics were at a loss of what to think of your work. Were you serious? Were you joking? You never took interviews and you were probably the biggest enigma known to man. Just when you let them think one thing about you, you’d quickly do a 180 and let them stew in their own beautiful confusion as you rub your hands together like some fucking DC villian. You’ve googled John Egbert a million times – no joke, if you typed the letter J into the tool bar it’s the first thing that shows up – but still, no leads. Maybe you were the only one in this new world. Maybe you were the only one who remembered.

Dirk was growing up. He found his calling in electronics and you indulged his hobby, grateful to keep him occupied and out of the usual dramas kids got into. It wasn’t long before you realised just like when he was your big Bro, you would never need to call an electrician again. He built and sold robots to make his own pocket money (the clever little bastard), so you never had to give the kid anything except food and the occasional gift. Sometimes you wonder if he’s what people would call a genius. You then correct yourself, because hell yes your bro is a fucking genius hands fucking down.

He calls you Dave.  
‘Dad’ was just weird, and being called ‘Bro’ kicked your heart in the dick so hard you snapped and told him you weren’t his real brother. Dirk’s face flushed and he tried to keep his tears behind the little poker face you’ve been mentoring him over. That was another asskick for your heart. That shit wasn’t in a very good condition. You kneeled down and put a hand on his small shoulder. “We ain’t brothers, lil’ man. You’re my clone. Well, half clone. I’ll explain this shit when you’re older, don’t ask. You’re gonna call me Dave from now on, got it?”  
He nodded, sniffling.  
“Good man.”  
You hugged him briefly and life continued on.

Years carried past. A graphic novel turned into a movie and a movie turned into an independent film company. Your shitty apartment turned into a high end pent house and a shitty little van into a Mercedes. Dirk’s fourteen now. He’s quiet, reserved, and every day becoming more and more like the Bro you once worshipped. He’s doing great at school, especially in science. He’s a bit more distant towards you, and your work keeps you busy most the time. Sometimes he gives you small looks that make you think maybe he’s angry of the neglect, but these looks last microseconds and you’re starting to think they may not even have existed in the first place.

One night, while the two of you are sharing a rare family dinner, he uncharacteristically starts up a conversation.  
“Dave, are internet friends as important as real friends?”  
You stop, a fork full of pasta halfway to your mouth.  
“What brings this topic up, lil’ man?” You ask.  
“I’ve made some friends online. We’ve been talking for a few months now. I like them better than the kids at school, but people ‘ve been tell me that’s weird.”  
“Tickle my nipples and colour me shocked, when the hell did you start caring about what those douchebags think?”  
Dirk shifted uneasily, face unreadable.  
“Was just asking.” He mumbled.  
You frown and shake your head, putting the fork down.  
“Look little dude, internet friends can be even more important than the assholes you meet in real life. My three best friends were all online friends,” You whince as John’s laughing face invades your mind and your tone softens, “Don’t let anyone tell you any fucking different.”  
Dirk blinked, then chuckled a little.  
“That’s totally weird bro, I’ve got three friends too.”  
You freeze. Dirk jolts up. “What did you just say?”  
“Woah, sorry, I meant, uh, Dave, I didn’t…”  
“No, no I don’t care about that, you have _three friends_?”  
Dirk nods, confused. “Yeah, Jane, Roxy and Jake, is something wrong?”  
“You got pictures?”  
“Yeah, but I don’t think—“  
“Show me.”

Dirk shows you the first picture. He tells you his name is Jake English and he lives on some retarded island in the middle of flip-fucking nowhere. You inhale sharply. The boy is basically Jade, bright green eyes, dark black hair, buck teeth and glasses like John’s. He’s holding two pistols. The boy looks exactly like a male version of the bright young gardener, which meant he looked exactly like John fucking Egbert and your stomach is flipping around like mad. The picture changes and you’re staring now at a young blonde girl, black lipstick and violet eyes. You would have sworn it was Rose, but her hair was longer and flicked out to the sides. A figure in the back catches your attention and _sweet Jesus fucking Christ there she is_. Rose is in the back, decked in a long black dress and knitting contently on the couch. You curse in amazement under your breathe. She’s only a few years older than you. “That’s Roxy.” Dirk informs you, giving your wide-eyed expression a quizzical glance. “She’s usually drunk, don’t ask it’s some weird fucking passive-aggressive feud between her and her crazy Psychologist mum.” You stifle a laugh and quietly say, “Sounds like her,” leading you to be graced with more confused glances. The picture changes again and you choke on the breath you were just inhaling.

You don’t bother looking at the small, blue eyed girl. No, your eyes are bugging out at her tall, hat adorned father – _John’s father_ – who was standing proudly beside her, arm around her shoulders. Your heart rate just put the foot on the gas. It’s having a disco party the size of Jupiter in your throat. This is it. This is the lead you’ve been googling since forever. This is the link to finding the one man who can fill that hole in your heart. You clear your throat, eyes stinging from the pain and shake your head “What’s her name?”  
“Jane Crocker.”  
You snort, covering you mouth thoughtfully.  
That’s why you couldn’t find the asshole. He had a different last name. The fact that is was Crocker was so overwhelmingly ironic you had to stop yourself from grinning.  
“Where does she live?” You ask quickly, not taking your eyes away.  
“Washington.” Dirk replies simply, head cocked.

“Wanna give sweet cheeks a visit?”


	4. All Imperfect Love Song

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Because if I say it out loud, it feels like it will disappear  
>  Because if I say it out loud, it feels like I will forget it  
> _

Washington.  
White washed houses, robust, green landscapes, bright blue skies with air about ten times cleaner than Texas. You drive your bright red, obnoxious sports car through the tiny backstreets of the suburbs, people stopping to stare uncomfortably long as they try to find a shape behind the black tinted glass. One man accidently turns the sprinkler on himself. You bring your hand up to cover your smirk and glance side long at Dirk, seated silently next to you. He’s emotionless, staring out the window at the spectacle being caused by your car’s presence – hand on his chin and elbow on the window sill. You know he’s nervous, you’ve lived long enough to tell. His leg is jittering, foot tapping absently on the carpeted flooring, his orange eyes darting to the car’s digital clock. His eyes flash up to your face, catching your red iris peering out at him. Sucking in a breath of surprise, he readjusts his glasses and scowls, cheeks turning a cherry red. You smile and turn up the music. You didn’t want him to be nervous _and_ awkward.

You take a left, a right, a left again and suddenly you’re in one of those snobby gated communities – the ones with all the same houses with the same backyards and the same work cars parked on the driveways. It’s like stepford wives. A shiver runs through you at the thought of being grabbed and turned into the perfect house wife. Dave Strider, man of mystery – cool kid of comics – reduced to a cake baking robot. You quickly lock the doors and notice Dirk looking more than a bit confused. The locking was less for your paranoia and more for watching Dirk try and unravel your motives, a sport that you think should be an Olympic sport because fuck that shit was entertaining. You know you’re less worried about crazy husbands and more worried about seeing a black imp come running out of one of the houses to attack you. Memories are hard to ignore.

\--

Dirk doesn’t say a word when you pull into the right driveway of the right house without him even telling you the number. He’s probably up to his pointed specs in your weird shit by now – a day long car ride and ten ironically cheesy love hotels later and he’d already decided to ignore your stupid behavior. You open the door and step out, the neighbours peering through their lacey white curtains to whisper and gossip about these two handsome, rich looking young albinos. Soak it in ladies, there’s a charge for looking at this hot bod. Dirk rolled his eyes as you systematically pose next to your car, pursing your lips, leaning back with your hands in your pockets. If it wasn’t for how serious your face looked they’d probably think you where mucking around. Now they were only confused. You chuckle as they slither back into their sterile home and finally look around. Yes, this was his house alright. The same tree with the same tire with the same car and the same paint. It screamed John and you struggled not to scream it yourself. The door opens with a bang and with unhidden glee a young girl with blue eyes like LOLAR’s oceans. Her black hair is short cropped and black, sticking up awkwardly in the same weird points his did – with the same buckteeth and the same awkward run. Your eyes sting and you bite your lip.

“Dirk!” She cries in a strange voice that reminds you distinctly of Shirley Temple. She throws her skinny arms around the young man, who pats her back firmly. He’s struggling not to grin like an idiot. It’s kind of endearing. Jane lets go, all smiles and glee and energy as she begins to diarrhea chat, gushing and gushing and gushing and is it just you, or is Dirk’s ear falling off? The smell of aftershave and baking suddenly catches your attention. You turn, and standing beside you is Mr Egbert. The Mr Egbert. The Man who fathered John, the man who taught the idiot all he knew. You clear your throat and hold your hand out. “Mr Eg-- Crocker, I assume?” He nods with a soft smile, taking his pipe from his mouth. “Yes, and you must be Mr Strider. I’ve heard a lot about you – and a lot more about your brother.” You nod solemly and let go of his hand in favour of shoving them in your pockets. The man looks you over, head to toes and toes to head, a confused look on his face. “This must be strange, but have we met before?” He asks, putting his pipe back into the tight line of his lips.   
The hole sears and burns, screams and grows.  
You swallow numbly, face devoid of any sign of life.  
“You’ve probably seen me on TV before.”  
The man shakes his head and starts – only for his daughter to come skipping over and running her damn trap still.  
“—I’m so excited, really, it’s such a darn pleasure to have you here! Come on dad, we can’t stand out here forever!”  
And with that, you entered the Crocker house. 

\--

The asteroid arrived, the world unprepared.  
The scientists are running around ape shit crazy, pressing buttons and firing missiles.  
Sirens are blaring, _yes there have been many casualties_ , the news reader says solemnly, tapping his papers on his stupid fucking desk.  
The asteroid landed with almost perfect accuracy.  
It landed smack bang in the centre of your heart and kicked the shit out of it.  
You’re out of lives.  
Game over.

\--

You don’t understand why everyone is panicking. Was there actually an asteroid? You can’t tell – but Dirk’s face is cracked and he’s trying to figure out where to put his hands on you. Jane is crying, her dad looking at you with horrid worry. You can hear a high pitch wailing and for a minute you’re confused. Then you realise it was coming from you. 

You were on your knees, your face distorted as you screamed, tears and snot running down your face freely. Your body rocks back and forth on its own, arms out in front of you, palms up and clutching at air. You look like one of those morning Middle Eastern women from the movies. You look so fucking uncool.   
You don’t care.  
You don’t feel embarrassed.  
You don’t feel anything.  
You only feel pain.

He’s standing in front of you, by the fire. He’s old, wrinkled – a grey moustache gracing his lips. He’s old, gentle, and he’s dead. You stare at the stuffed figure, this sick, stuffed man who was once John. Who was once your friend. Who was once your love.  
You continue to scream, continue to stare and Dirk’s words fall helplessly on your deaf ears.  
His arms encompass your head and you find yourself buried in his tiny, tiny chest – the chest of a boy.  
The same chest as John’s.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FUCK YES I FINISHED THIS SHIT  
> FIRST COMPLETED SERIES  
> FUCKING  
> YES  
> MOTHER  
> FUCKER


End file.
